


A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

by Bottlegreen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, British school corporal punishment, Corporal Punishment, Humiliation, M/M, Semi-public spanking, Sexual Tension, Spanking, Student Sherlock, Teacher John, Teacher/Student
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-10 03:04:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4374755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bottlegreen/pseuds/Bottlegreen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor Watson might not look that alarming but there are consequences for misbehaving in his class, as Sherlock soon discovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Sherlock turned restlessly in his bed, unable to find a comfortable position, and tried not to think about the events of previous the day. It wasn’t easy. They’d made a powerful impression and now, in the dark of his room late at night, the memories ran behind his eyes in a continuous techni-coloured loop. The supply teacher hadn’t looked particularly fierce when the Headmaster had introduced him – short and fortyish, his close cropped hair and upright bearing had suggested a military past, but there was nothing in Dr Watson’s appearance that had caused Sherlock concern. The extent of this misjudgement was almost as painful to his pride as – here he rolled onto his belly – it had been to his behind._

Wallace had started it. It had been a hot day, near the end of term and tempers were fraying. He’d barged past Sherlock in the Chemistry lab and upset an experiment which had taken two weeks to set up. Harsh words had been exchanged and while the master had separated them before blows could be traded, the resentment had simmered on throughout the day. In the final period it had boiled over. Dr Watson had stepped out of the laboratory to return the register. By the time he returned what had started as a brief tussle had turned into a full on fight. Sherlock was proficient at judo, but Wallace boxed for the school and neither was in a forgiving mood. Tables were pushed to one side and chairs overturned, while the rest of the class stood around and cheered.

What had happened next had been extraordinary. First, Dr Watson waded into the fray and seized each of them by the collar. Then, without raising his voice, he ordered them to stand in opposite corners while the remainder of the form tidied up and returned to their seats. There they had remained while he had set the next exercise and put the class to work. It was probably the first time ever that boys of eighteen had been shamed like that in front of the whole form. But there was much worse to come. Once the class had settled down into chastened silence, Dr Watson had crooked his fingers and said, “You two – with me,” and led them into the solutions room, a small laboratory which adjoined the main classroom.

“Wallace started it,” said Sherlock, who was a great believer in having the first, interim and, if possible, last word.

“Wallace is you, is it?” said Dr Watson to Wallace, who nodded. “And you are?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well Sherlock Holmes, I don’t want to hear it,” said Dr Watson, flatly. “Fighting is forbidden. You two weren’t just scuffling. If the Head hears about this, he’ll suspend you.”

Wallace and Sherlock exchanged an uneasy glance. Though there was no love lost between them, suspension would be in neither of their interests. For Sherlock it would be a blemish on his academic record as he applied to University; for Wallace it could be the final straw that led to expulsion.

“Sorry, sir,” Wallace muttered.

“Sorry, sir,” Sherlock echoed.

“Sorry isn’t good enough,” said Dr Watson. “I will not have my classes disrupted like that. I can write you up and you can go to see the Head, or we can sort this out here and now.”

Sherlock looked around the laboratory. It was a long narrow room which smelled of iodine and faintly of formaldehyde. There was a table and chair in the centre for making up the solutions, a fume cabinet at one end, a locked metal cupboard containing the more volatile reagents at the other and neatly labelled shelves of laboratory consumables along both walls. A small hand washing sink, stood in the corner next to the door. The only way in was from the classroom.

“Sort it out, sir?” he said cautiously. A term helping make solutions didn’t sound too onerous.

“The Head told me the rules. Misdemeanours may be dealt with by corporal punishment, at the masters’ discretion.”

Sherlock blinked in surprise. It was true that amongst the more troublesome junior forms, it wasn’t unknown for the masters to dispense justice via a short sharp shock in lieu of the more formal route. The caning off of detentions was considered part of the fabric of the school and generally preferable to the alternative. For the seniors however physical punishment was almost unheard of. Dr Watson might have seen the rules, but he hadn’t understood their context.

“You’re saying you’ll…beat us?” he said, just to be certain.

“That’s right.”

“’ _kin_  hell” muttered Wallace beneath his breath. He was a young man of few words, many of them obscene.

“And then we won’t have to go to the Head?”

Dr Watson nodded.

Wallace and Sherlock exchanged another glance made into unwilling allies by force of circumstance. Compared to suspension an impromptu beating, while momentarily unpleasant, was by far the better option. Sherlock looked back at Dr Watson scarcely believing his good fortune. The doctor had clasped his hands behind his back in the attitude of a soldier at ease and was waiting for their decision. He seemed very sure of himself but he wasn’t very large. He didn’t seem particularly formidable.

He raised his eyebrows fractionally at Wallace - _I will if you will?_  - Wallace, who wasn’t completely dense, nodded.

“All right,” Sherlock said.

“All right,” said Dr Watson. “You too?” Wallace nodded.

Dr Watson picked up the chair and turned it away from the table. “Who first?”

Sherlock considered the empty chair. It had a slightly sinister look. He hadn’t gone as far to consider logistics. “What’s that for?”

“That’s for me to sit on while I spank you.”

“You what?” said Wallace, as Sherlock said, “ _Spank_  us?” louder than he intended.

There was an unmistakable titter from outside. The younger boys received the slipper or occasionally the strap. He’d never heard of anyone being spanked. “But we’re  _seniors_.”

Dr Watson gave him a level look. “I know what you are, Holmes,” he said. “One of you can fetch me the board ruler, if you think it's beneath your dignity. But to be honest I don’t think I’ll need it.”

“No sir,” said Wallace, shooting Sherlock a verminous glare. “I’ll go first, sir.”

“All right. You,” here he pointed to Sherlock. “Go and stand over there,” he gestured to the fume cabinet. “Eyes to the wall.”

Sherlock looked towards the half-open door and lowered his voice. “May I close the door, sir?”

“You may not,” Dr Watson said. “I don’t trust that lot not to riot given half a chance.”

This was probably a fair assessment. Sherlock went to stand where he had been told. He was unsure now if he would have preferred to have gone first and got the ridiculous experience over with, but it was too late to worry about that.

The chair creaked.

“You,” Dr Watson said in a low voice, “Wallace, wasn’t it? Come here.”

The words were spoken with a quiet intensity and Sherlock was suddenly glad that it was not he who was facing the doctor. The clear plastic cover of the fume cabinet served as a mirror, reflecting a dim, distorted version of the scene behind him. He could make out the back of the doctor’s head and shoulders above the chair's wooden back. Wallace hove into view. He was a brawny young man, not much taller than Dr Watson but with the broad shoulders and deep chest of a born boxer. Sherlock couldn’t make out his expression and found he was glad of it. It was both intimate and embarrassing to stand there, uncomfortable voyeur of another boy’s punishment. Especially when he had similar in store.

“Trousers down.”

Sherlock’s stomach did a weird flip-flop. He thought he must have misheard, but in the reflection he saw Wallace hesitate, then begin to undo his belt. It was incredible. They were eighteen yet Dr Watson not only planned to spank them - he meant to take down their trousers first.

“Bend over.”

 _In bed, Sherlock wriggled, then threw off his covers - his sheets were chafing him. It was a hot, close night and the memory of Dr Watson saying, in that quiet intense voice –_ bend over _\- was making him hotter still._

“Bend over,” Dr Watson had said.

Wallace had bent, disappearing out of sight behind the table. There was a pause, while Sherlock’s mind raced and the creaking of the chair showed Wallace was settling himself into position. Dr Watson raised his right hand. It hovered for a moment in mid-air, then he brought it down with a speed that made Sherlock’s eyes widen. The unmistakable meaty slap of hand on flesh echoed around the narrow room. Sherlock jumped and Wallace grunted in shock. The sound would be clearly audible through the half-open door. None of the listening class could be in any doubt about what was happening in the adjacent room.

The doctor raised his hand again. He seemed to take an age between each slap, placing them with care and waiting until the effect had penetrated before he continued. Sherlock understood what he meant about not needing the board ruler; it would be an unwieldy tool for a precision exercise such as this. After the first dozen blows, Sherlock heard Wallace begin to gasp at each impact but the spanking continued inexorably, each slap ringing out alarmingly loud. Sherlock flinched as they rained down, the muscles in his legs spasming in unwanted sympathy. At eighteen or nineteen, Sherlock had lost count, Wallace began to kick, Sherlock saw his feet fly into view, his trousers waving from his legs like a flag of surrender. At two dozen he made a determined effort to escape. The chair legs squealed across the lino and Dr Watson grunted with effort. “Oh no, you don’t.”

“’kin  _hell,”_  Wallace said, the words were almost a wail.

Sherlock turned and was halfway around the table before he knew what he was doing. He halted abruptly at the tableau in front of him.

Wallace lay sprawled across Dr Watson's lap, his trousers handing from one ankle. His bottom and thighs were as brawny as the rest of him. A hot, red blush of pain was clearly visible across the top of his legs where his brief white shorts ended. He had reached backwards with one hand, trying to shield his bottom. Dr Watson had taken hold of the offending arm and was holding it in the small of Wallace’s back, rendering him completely helpless. There was a look of implacable calm on his face. Wallace’s legs could kick all they wanted to, it said. He could flail about with his hands or struggle to get free. It wouldn’t make the slightest difference. He was going to be spanked, and that was that. After a moment he noticed Sherlock standing in front of him.  “Back in place, Holmes,” he said mildly. “Your turn will come.”

He appeared completely unconcerned. This nondescript little man had one of the school’s top athletes pinioned across his lap and he’d barely turned a hair. Sherlock retreated to his position and faced the fume cabinet without a word.

“I’m going to take you underwear down now, Wallace,” he heard Dr Watson say.

Sherlock's face turned crimson with shame. He had no doubt that he too would receive this same treatment. Soon he would have no choice but to have his underwear pulled down and his bare red bottom displayed to the doctor’s level gaze. The thought made him feel very odd, hot, and quivery. He wondered if he were ill. That would explain the weird almost hallucinatory clarity of the crisp smacks of the doctor’s firm right hand landing on Wallace’s naked flesh. There were no protests from Wallace now, just a constant low whimpering. He'd had enough. The loss of his underwear had utterly demoralised him; the school’s top boxer brought down to the level of a naughty child.

Dr Watson reached a similar conclusion. He brought his hand down twice more, then stopped.

“All right, Wallace,” he said after a moment, “I hope that’s taught you a lesson.”

Wallace muttered something indistinguishable, but apparently not obscene.

“Off you go, then. Leave the door ajar,” said Dr Watson.

Sherlock felt a moment’s relief for Wallace, who was an idiot, but not more than usually annoying, before he realised with a lurch of his stomach the implications of this announcement. Wallace stood, resumed his clothes and slunk from the room. Sherlock couldn’t make out his expression. There was burst of chatter from the classroom at his reappearance. It faded abruptly to silence. Dr Watson stretched his arms to the ceiling for a slow count of five, and then dropped his arms to his sides. When he spoke his voice was low but clear. “Your turn, Holmes. Come here.”

_Sherlock rolled over then sat up, wincing as he rose from his bed. He didn’t want to think about this again. It was too hot to be thinking. His hair was sticking to his damp forehead with sweat. He needed a cold shower, or a cold drink. Instead he went to stand by the open window, and stared out across the dark school fields, praying for a breeze._


	2. Chapter 2

“Holmes,” Dr Watson had said, in a voice that brooked no opposition, “come here.”

For a moment he’d considered walking out instead, just leaving and accepting any suspension which came his way. His family had its faults but they wouldn’t expect him to stand for being punished in such an inappropriate way. And his university applications could go hang – his grades were good enough to speak for themselves. In truth, there was nothing to stop him. Except possibly, pride. He didn’t want his classmates whispering that he’d been scared. And, for want of a better word, honour. Wallace and he had agreed they would to accept this punishment and Wallace had kept his end of the bargain. Then there was pragmatism - suspension would be terribly dull. But despite all these considerations he knew he could leave. What held him rooted to the spot was an insatiable curiosity. He’d never received a formal disciplinary beating. There had been, on occasion, a swat with a gym shoe or a cuff around the ear, but nothing akin to the slow, methodological correction he’d just witnessed Dr Watson dish out. Perhaps it was perverse but having vicariously suffered through Wallace’s spanking he found he wanted to experience it for himself. He wanted his own fifteen minutes of penitence under Dr Watson’s strict hand.

And so with a reluctance that was at least partially feigned, he obeyed the doctor’s summons and went to stand in front of him, his head lowered in contrition, his eyes peeking through his fringe - every inch the contrite schoolboy.

“You know why you’re here,” Dr Watson said, “so I’ll spare you the lecture. Trousers down.”

The brusque words sent a tiny thrill down Sherlock’s spines. “But sir,” he protested.

Perhaps he seemed a little too bashful. Dr Watson gave him a thoughtful look, as though suspecting his sincerity. His gaze was as level as ever, but the set of his mouth expressed scepticism. And what a hard little mouth it was. Sherlock hadn’t noticed previously - it was overshadowed by the doctor’s furrowed brow and snub nose. The furrows gave the impression of long- suffering patience; the snub, an air of affable approachability. The mouth though, was firm set and rather narrow; the lips thin and pressed tight together. It was the mouth of a man who did not suffer fools gladly. A man with secrets. A man, perhaps, more ruthless than he let on.

Unscientific balderdash, of course. Mycroft would mock mercilessly if he knew Sherlock had entertained such thoughts. The secrets of a man’s personality could no more be deduced from the cast of his features than from the lumps on his head. Still, it made Sherlock wonder.  _Had_  Dr Watson - apparently an experienced supply teacher - really misunderstood the context so badly? Did he truly not know that senior boys were rarely beaten and certainly never spanked? Sherlock’s knowledge of the state school system was hazy at best but surely they were less, not more, likely to resort to corporal punishment. Or did Dr Watson know, but not care? It was strange surely, to default to putting a pair of unruly sixth-formers over his knee.

Dr Watson had no time for such prevarication. “Oh, but sir- what, Holmes?”

“Wallace started it.”

“And I’m finishing it. Trousers down.”

Sherlock bit his lip. Dr Watson’s mouth became downright sarcastic. Too much. He fumbled his trousers down before he was called to account. Beneath his uniform he wore a modest pair of dark blue boxer shorts, considerably less revealing then Wallace’s tight white briefs. He was grateful for the extra coverage. Though he’d never admit it, he was a little self-conscious about his behind. Judo and swimming had developed the muscles and given him a pair of round and surprisingly succulent haunches that sat a little incongruously on his slender frame. It took considerable will power not to tug at the shorts nervously in a futile attempt to cover himself up. Dr Watson let him wait for a few moments with his palms sweating and his trousers around his knees before he spoke again:

“Bend over.”

A strange burst of heat made itself felt at the juncture of Sherlock’s thighs, just where his buttocks flared from his legs. Precisely the place, in fact, where Wallace’s skin had blazed hottest as he had squirmed across Dr Watson’s thighs. The memory sent nervous butterflies fluttering through his belly. He bent with graceless haste and almost flung himself over the doctor’s lap, suddenly anxious to get the ordeal over with. The chair creaked in protest. The doctor’s thighs were short but solid, hard beneath Sherlock's abdomen and hips. The position felt precarious, as though he was about to slide to the floor. He braced himself on palms and toes to keep his balance, his head hanging downwards. Close to the lino looked dusty, its shine dulled by the passage of a numerous pairs of shoes. His hair fell forwar around his face, the longer curls providing an illusion of privacy.

A breath of cool air stirred the small hairs on his back; the doctor had folded back his shirt tails. “Shift forward,” he said, guiding Sherlock into position.

Sherlock rebalanced himself and waited, trying not to fidget. Having brought him to this point however, Dr Watson seemed in no hurry to begin. He laid one arm over Sherlock’s waist, holding him steady. The other hand rested almost casually on the crest of Sherlock buttock, as though measuring how curve of the flesh fitted to the cup of his palm. Sherlock could feel the heat of it, burning through the thin cotton of his boxer shorts.

“I hope you’re ashamed of yourself, Holmes,” he said quietly. “A bright young man like you, having to lie in this disgraceful position, with your trousers down like a naughty child.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. No one ever spoken to him like this before – in a low intimate voice, half scolding, half musing. It sent odd quivery feelings up and down his legs. All his limbs felt hot and heavy. He did feel shame, but also a breathless anticipation. He was profoundly grateful for the sheltering curtain of hair that concealed his emotions.

“Holmes?” Dr Watson prompted.

“Yes, sir,” said Sherlock taking refuge in the safety of a rote response.

“Good,” said the doctor simply and brought down his hand down with a resounding slap right on the crown on Sherlock’s right buttock. It landed with a hard crack that reverberated through Sherlock’s thin frame. Sherlock felt the breath leave his lungs in a silent ‘oof’ and his eyes open wide with shock. Any hope he might have had that Wallace’s spanking had tired out Dr Watson’s arm, evaporated. He was clearly both willing and able to mete out the full measure of Sherlock's punishment.

There was a pause for the count of three, while a hot sting spread across Sherlock’s behind, then the hand came down with equal weight on his left buttock before repeating the treatment on the right. For the time being he seemed content to concentrate his attention on the fleshiest part of Sherlock’s behind, pummelling the muscles with a vigour the verged on the evangelical. Sherlock’s hips heaved and rolled beneath the bombardment. Sweat began to prickle across his upper lip. The surface of his skin smarted and burned but beneath the superficial pain a deep sweet ache was making itself known. The weight of the doctor’s hand had awakened nerve endings buried deep in his pelvis and was bombarding them with strange vibrations. His body resonated under the hard percussion, like a drum changing its timbre as it warmed.

Then without warning the doctor shifted his aim and slapped hard at the top of Sherlock thighs, where the padding flesh was thinnest. His whimsical reflections evaporated. The blow shot a bolt of electricity down his thighs. He gave a sharp cry and threw up both legs in shock, a reflexive jerk barely impeded by the trousers wrapped around his knees. The movement threatened to overbalance him. He felt himself began to pivot on the doctor’s thigh and tried to brace his arms to halt his fall - to no avail, his muscles felt like string. Dr Watson gave a muffled exclamation and caught him around the chest as he plummeted floorwards.

Sherlock swung for a second, perfectly balanced - his face a few scant inches from the worn lino. He could make out in sudden minute detail the scuff mark from one particular shoe, worn on the inner heal with distinctive damage marks to the toe. Then with a grunt of effort the doctor levered him up to horizontal before setting him awkwardly back on his feet.

“All right,” he said, “up you get.”

Sherlock swayed, caught hold of the table for balance and tried not to buckle at the knees. “It that it?” he said. His voice sounded strange. The blood pounded in his ears. He felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment that his ordeal was over. 

“Your legs are too long.” Dr Watson stood, dusted off his knees and looked around the room before focussing on the chair he’d just vacated. “We’ll do it this way instead. Kneel on that.” His matter-of-fact tone was strangely compelling. Sherlock knelt carefully onto the chair, not thinking to refuse. It was an old wooden affair with a padded leather seat and a low ladder back. “Spread your knees a bit otherwise you’ll overbalance again. Now lean forward.” Sherlock folded his forearms along the chair rail and dropped his chest. He felt a hand come to rest at the small of his back, pressing down lightly. “Bum up.” He hollowed his back obediently. “That’ll do. Now keep still.”

Without further ado he tucked his fingers in the waistband of Sherlock’s underwear and dragged them down in one movement, leaving his bottom bare and the shorts inside-out halfway down his thighs. Sherlock turned his head in shock and thought he caught a hint of professional pride lurking at the corners of Dr Watson’s mouth as he inspected the reddened flesh. It was gone as soon as he saw it. The doctor frowned and cocked his head, some teacher’s sixth sense alerted by the quality of the silence in the adjoining room.

“Wait there,” he said and looked around the half-open door. “What’s going on in here? What are you boys doing out of your seats? Wallace, unless you want another round, I suggest you pull your trousers  _up._ ” He returned to the classroom without a backward glance, leaving Sherlock alone to contemplate his fate.

He gripped the back of the chair and waited, keenly aware of the disgraceful spectacle he must present. With his knees parted, Dr Watson would be able to see his balls and most probably his anus. The quivery feelings returned with a vengeance at the thought, fluttering up and down his legs and he realised with a lurch of shame that his cock was starting to thicken. He hadn’t thought he’d liked sex. The smutty conversations of his class mates bored him. Their dog-eared magazines left him cold. The gyrations of the dancers in their favourite music videos had seemed ridiculous rather than erotic. He’d considered himself immune to affairs -any nocturnal fumbling in his solitary bed an irritating necessity to relieve a bothersome congestion, rather than an activity born out of any carnal desire. Now with his bottom bare and bent over a chair back waiting to be spanked, it was clear he’d been mistaken. The difference between him and his classmates was one of approach not outcome. What they achieved through staring at glossy centrefolds, he achieved through repeated hard stimulation of his behind.

_Standing naked at his bedroom window, Sherlock felt his cock twitch once again at the memory. It was no good. The night was still and close, not a breeze stirring the long strand of polar trees that marked the boundary of the school grounds. He abandoned the window and picked up his towel. It was to be a cold shower after all, then. He believed it was the traditional remedy. If nothing else, the cool water might be soothing._

 


	3. Chapter 3

_The school plumbing was the original Victorian as befitted such an august establishment. The water dribbled from the shower head in a lazy, tepid stream rather than the hard cleansing jet that Sherlock had wanted. He rinsed the sweat from his skin, towelled off and was sweating again before he reached his bedroom. The smooth silk of his dressing gown whispered against his bare skin as he made his way back along the silent corridor. The worst of the soreness had faded in the last day but a lingering ache remained, a faint, disquieting reminder of their strange encounter._

_Back in his room he shed his dressing gown and flopped face first onto his bed, his hand drifting almost unconsciously to smooth the skin of his behind. There was still a little heat here, a little pinkness. Wallace, of course, had lost no time in displaying his rosy backside to a fascinated audience…_

“Wallace,” he’d heard Dr Watson say, “pull your trousers  _up._ And the rest of you - have you finished the exercise? Well you’d better get a move on then, hadn’t you? Unless you want to come and see me next door.”

A general scuffling and scraping of chair legs suggested that no one wanted to take Dr Watson up on his offer. He returned to the solutions lab, shaking his head. 

He paused at the sight of Sherlock waiting for him as he rounded the door. This time Sherlock was sure he detected a certain pleasure on the doctor’s face at the sight of what he'd wrought. He wondered again. Was Dr Watson really so ignorant of the customs of the school or did his supply status provide him with a plausible deniability? Did he take a grim satisfaction in showing rich young men the error of their ways? Did he, in fact, relish the opportunity to scald the bottoms of these scions of the powerful and influential?

Dr Watson’s gaze met his, frank, open and completely guileless. “Bum up, Holmes,” he said.

The skin of Sherlock’s balls tightened at the ominous words. “Please, sir,” he said, “I’ve think I’ve had enough now.” This time his reluctance wasn’t feigned. He didn’t know which would be worse, the doctor noticing his stiff cock and mocking him for it - his face flared at the thought - or the doctor not noticing, or maybe worse, not caring, and continuing to wallop Sherlock as he'd walloped Wallace. The hot glow of pain had spread across his behind as he waited. It throbbed and pulsed in time with his heart beat. He was very aware how vulnerable his position left him – with the flesh pulled tight across his bottom and the tender skin of his inner thighs exposed to Dr Watson's hard hand.

The doctor unbuttoned his cuff before replying. “That’s not for you to decide, Holmes.”

“But, sir…” he sought for a convincing argument. Dr Watson was rolling up his shirt sleeve in a slow deliberate fashion that made his mouth go dry. “Wallace started it.”

“I don’t want to hear it. Stick your bum up.”

What happened next eclipsed the most fevered of Sherlock’s imaginings. The doctor resumed his spanking, working with a hard, methodical hand. This time he concentrated his attention at the top of Sherlock’s thighs, at that evil spot where the nerves ran closest to the surface. Every smack delivered a jolt of searing heat. Within a minute Sherlock was panting as though he’d run a race, slippery with sweat. He could taste it. It beaded his upper lip, stung in his eyes and soaked through his shirt, sticking it to his back. The air was thick with the unmistakable heavy musk of arousal. It drowned out the sweet sharp smell of iodine and formaldehyde. He did like sex. That was clear. All it had needed was a firm hand warming his behind and a stern voice taking him to task. His cock bumped against his taut belly with each slap. When he dropped his head he could see it jutting from between his thighs, the skin a dark angry red, the crown glossy and engorged.

Dr Watson saw it too. It didn’t seem to cause him particular surprise. “It’s always the same with you public school types,” he said. “Must be genetic.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He was past the point of meaningful thought. His balls hung throbbing and heavy between his legs. His buttocks were hot and engorged with blood, exquisitely sensitive. They felt as though they had swollen to twice their normal size, like a baboon signalling its readiness to mate. His self-possession hung in tatters. He gripped the rail of the chair back and writhed in an agony of pleasurable pain, near frantic with arousal. “Please,” he begged, not sure what he was asking, “please. Oh, I won’t do it again.”

His words caused the doctor a certain dark amusement. “That’s what they all say, Holmes,” he said. He brought his mouth close to Sherlock’s ear and whispered with sudden intensity: “Naughty boys like you, they’re all the same.”

Then without warning he ducked his head and bit, his sharp little teeth sinking into the thick muscle that ran along Sherlock’s shoulder to his neck. It was the final straw. It was as though the bite had connected a circuit that ran between his balls and his brain. A bolt of electricity sizzled down his spine. He gave a sharp cry of shock and felt the doctor’s palm clamp over his mouth, cutting him short as he came, completely untouched. It was his first non-solitary orgasm and by far the best of his admittedly limited experience. He came and came and came in a long series of frenetic jerks, shuddering with the force of the spasms. Only when his muffled yells had faded into silence did the doctor release his neck and remove his palm. “Well,” he said after a moment. “Not had that happen before.”

Sherlock rested his forehead on his forearms. His euphoria had abruptly vanished. He felt dizzy and his knees hurt. “I’m special,” he said with absolutely no sense of irony.

Dr Watson gave surprised cut-off bark of laughter. “Are you now?”

“Yes.”

The doctor was silent for a moment. Sherlock waited with his eyes shut for an explanation or perhaps an excuse, a blustering attempt to explain what had happened, but all when he spoke all he said was, “Well, I hope you’ve learnt your lesson, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock raised his head. Dr Watson's expression held nothing but mild enquiry. Was he mad? Had war sent him insane? In Sherlock's muddled state, the puzzle was beyond him. He settled for a rote response: “Yes sir.”

Was that a faint knowing smile at the corner of Dr Watson’s mouth? “Wipe that up and back to class.”

Sherlock waited until he was alone then climbed carefully from the chair. For lack of other options he used his boxer shorts to mop up the incriminating stains on the lino. Then he pulled on his trousers, the thick fabric rough and scratchy on his bare skin and stuffed the shorts into his pocket with a grimace of distaste. He spent a few minutes rinsing his hands and bathing his hot face. Then, preparations as complete as he could make them he took a deep breath and returned to the classroom, shutting the door quietly behind him. Dr Watson had his back turned and was chalking up the answers to the exercise on the blackboard while the class watched with a reasonable facsimile of rapt attention. Sherlock found a spare desk and took his seat gingerly, his face flaming afresh at the muffled titters of his classmates.

_He groaned silently at the memory and buried his burning face in his pillow. God, it had been embarrassing, having them all know. And a day later he was still so sore. He wriggled in shame and found with a feeling of sick inevitability that he was getting hard again, his cock rubbing against his rumpled bedding, desperate for friction. His sheets were smooth and cool and provided no relief. His body craved a firmer touch. It was late. He had a judo contest in the morning. He needed to sleep. He bowed to the inevitable and rolled carefully to his feet. A wooden chair had found its way to his rooms earlier that evening. It was an old fashioned affair with a low wooden back and a padded leather seat, nondescript enough that no one would think much of it. It was the work of moments to straddle the seat. He paused for a moment, imagining how he must look from behind, with his bottom quite bare, pink and a little swollen and ready to be spanked until it was red all over. The position rubbed the leather against the tender flesh of his behind, the friction reawakening the stinging in his skin. He ground against the cushion, seeking an echo of that deep, satisfying pressure and felt his cock harden in response._

_It wouldn’t take much tonight. Riding the chair and imagining he was about to be spanked. Bent over with a quiet voice, a steady gaze and a firm hand putting him in his place. Oh, it wouldn’t take much at all. Not when his balls felt so full, and his cock was so hard. He rubbed frantically, seeking to reawaken the delicious heat. A vivid memory of that hard, little biting mouth flashed across his mind and he shuddered to a guilty climax, biting down hard on his hand to muffle his cries._

_Afterwards when his heart had slowed its racing and he’d returned wearily to his rumpled bed, he found his hand going not to his behind but to the bite at his shoulder. He traced the marks thoughtfully, the imprint of two neat little sets of teeth hidden beneath his school collar. A warning, a brand or a memento? He still didn’t know. As sleep claimed him, a last thought surfaced from the depths of his drowsy mind. He had certainly learned a lesson from Dr Watson’s punishment, but he still wasn’t sure whether it was the one the doctor had intended._

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a tumblr, but if you liked this story and want to reblog it, the automated feed link is [here](http://ao3feed-sherlock.tumblr.com/post/124503468519/a-wolf-in-sheeps-clothing).


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